I had a dream.

It felt so real.

It was the middle of the night. I thought I heard a noise. I remained motionless, waiting for corroboration. And then there it was again. It sounded like a voice or possibly more than one voice. I slowly rolled out of bed and crept toward the front door. The voices got a little louder, but were still indistinct. As I rounded the corner to the foyer, I could see that the front door was slightly ajar. How could I have left it open? Panic set in.

As I moved quickly toward the door, I grabbed its edge and opened it a little more. I’m not sure why. I was acting on impulse. In my head I’m thinking, “You’re so dumb! What if they see you?” It was in that moment that I could confirm it was indeed a “they.” There were two figures mumbling to themselves, inching toward the stoop.

“Go away!” I implored as I slammed and locked the door. Still shaking, I heard one say, “Let’s go around to the back.”

My heart lept as I wondered aloud, “Did I leave the slider to the deck open too?”

By this time my chocolate lab, Moose, was at my side. He rushed to the back door with me, (although his steps appeared to be fueled by excitement while mine were powered by stress and worry).

Why wasn’t Moose barking? He always barked in times like these. What in the world did I mean by “times like these?” We had never known a time like this – with the exception of the occasion when two figures stole my Halloween candy. I felt their intention as I walked past them, their parka hoods pulled up to obscure their faces. It was a warm autumn night. Why the parkas? I clutched my grocery bag filled with sweets, but it was too late. The figures ran by me, ripping the loot from my 10-year-old hands.

There was little relief when I discovered the slider was closed. I unlocked it and stepped out on the deck to see if the figures were indeed making their way into the backyard. They were feet from me – already on the steps to the deck. How did they get there so quickly?

I pointed in the direction of the shadowy figures and ordered Moose to take care of them. Moose looked at me obligingly before running down the stairs, passing the figures and disappearing into the yard.

I stood at the top of the stairs, kicking at one of the shadowy figures. As it fell in slow motion, down and off of the stairs, I felt a tinge of regret. I hoped I hadn’t hurt anyone. I returned to my senses when I saw the second figure nearing the midway point of his climb.

I grabbed my phone and warned, “I’m calling the police! They will be here any minute!”

I dialed 9-1-1. As I listened to the ringing, I organized my thoughts into bullet points.

• Intruders.
• Address.
• Hurry.

No one answered.

Terrified as to what would follow, it was in that very moment that I woke up. My heart was beating out of my chest. I looked over at my husband, Jeff. He appeared to be sleeping soundly. Moose, too, wasn’t moving. Moose hears everything. EVERYTHING. If he wasn’t moving?

I was still scared. My irrational brain took over and I wondered if the dream was some sort of sign. I lept out of bed and ran to the front door. It was closed. It was locked. The back slider was locked, too. I stood outside of my son David’s room and slowly opened the door. He was asleep. I waited for what felt like an eternity to see his bed move. He was breathing. Everyone was safe. As I gave myself permission to breath, I went back to bed.

I don’t know if I ever really went back to sleep, though. Instead, I replayed the story in my mind while trying to will my unconscious self to dream about something a little less heavy. How about one of those flying dreams? How about one where I’m an Olympian? I love the one in which I back flip everywhere. Back flip to the front of a room. Back flip to Costco. Back flip to the mailbox. As I roll over yet again, I take out my frustration on my very flat pillow, pounding it, flipping it, folding it. Desperate for sleep, I decided I’d settle for the dream when I forget the combination to my high school locker. Or the one when gum gets stuck to my teeth and it takes me the entire dream to peel it off. Although the last two options prompt a bit of anxiety, they are way less stressful than what I had just endured.

Intruders. Determined to get in my house. Suspected of wanting to harm my family.

It didn’t take me more than a cup of coffee to decipher what this nightmare was all about. For the last however many days I have been inhaling all things novel coronavirus. I’ve watched White House briefings, read a variety of daily newspapers and scrolled through headlines, memes and video clips on social media. And I am afraid. What if Jeff gets it? What if David gets it? What if I get it? What if my parents get it? What if someone else in my extended family or friend group gets it? What if someone has to be hospitalized? What if?

I’m doing all of the things – social distancing, only going out when necessary, washing my hands, hunkering down. But none of that allays my fears. What if I washed my hands after a Costco run, but missed a tiny microbe of the virus? What if that large Diet Coke I had to have in the drive-thru was covered with the virus? What if the mail I put on the kitchen counter had germs on it?

Did I just open my front door for the intruder?

I don’t know. I can’t see the intruder. I don’t know where the intruder is. It’s nowhere and everywhere at the same time. It’s so confusing.

I see the rising numbers. I look at the maps. And it feels like the intruder could be getting closer. Maybe. Maybe not. I can’t be sure. Just to be safe, I shore up the walls of this fortress. I constantly remind Jeff and David to wash their hands. I say “no” to the request for a Smoothie King run. I postpone the lunch with friends. I wipe off the bananas I just purchased with a Lysol wipe.

Because I really have no idea, I assume that everyone and everything is somehow linked to the intruder. Contaminated. And they (everyone and everything) don’t even know it.

No one can help me when I’m choosing to live in this fortress of fear, because they don’t know about it. I’m silent. What is more, in my effort to block the scary intruder from entering my world, the walls I’ve put in place also keep out those who might be able to assist. So when I think I’m dailing 9-1-1, in reality, I’ve already yanked the telephone cord out of the wall. The phone doesn’t work.

Owning all of this fear and sharing it with the world was a very scary prospect a few days ago. Even though I didn’t think my fear was all that unusual and I didn’t think it was misplaced, I wasn’t brave enough to raise my hand and say, this coronavirus stuff is terrifying! When it became too exhausting to carry around anymore – I had to put it down. It was then that I cracked open a window in the fortress and mentioned my fear to a couple of family members.

The result of those conversations – relief, hope, love, laughter and reassurance. And so much more.

In a follow-up text message a few days later, one of my siblings threw me another lifeline of sorts being offered in the form of a Facebook video by author Augusten Burroughs. In his nearly 18-minute reflection posted Tuesday, March 24, called “Writing Will Comfort You,” Burroughs riffed on the terrifying times we are living in. All of this uncertainty can be scary, he confirmed. It can cause one to panic, to worry to feel very alone. So what is there to do? “Write,” Burroughs answered, simply.

Start where you are and write about what you are feeling right now, he encouraged. What are you going through? Write about it. How do you feel? Write about it. Don’t stop to look critically at your work, or to debate your punctuation, your verb tense – just keep writing. Put it all down. Write it all.

Writing “keeps you tethered to the moment.” Burroughs explained, when you are focused on what is right in front of you, you’re not focused on all of the awful things that could be happening – and if you are focused on all of the awful things that could be happening – you are doing it through your writing. There’s no safer space. You are in control.

You will find comfort through writing. You will feel safe. You will feel less alone because others will be writing, too. Others will be writing right long with you.

Connecting with Burroughs’ words, I pulled out my laptop and started to write. I wrote about my experience – the nightmare. I wrote about my feelings – the fear, the anxiety and the uncertainty. I wrote it all. I said everything I needed to say.

It felt good to unload all of that onto the screen. I felt a small level of joy, imagining others unloading too – unpacking their bags filled with worry, terror and the unknown.

(I’m not sure how readers will view what we’ve written. But I’m not worried about that right now. We can’t worry about that right now.)

Writing about what stresses us, Burroughs said, is the best way he knows how to tone down feelings of panic, loneliness and terror and to make the unknown less important. As I near the conclusion of this blog, I think Burroughs is right. In this moment, I feel settled. Comforted. In control.

At the same time, I know the nightmare isn’t over. And who knows how I will feel tomorrow – how we will feel tomorrow. Right now – I’m focused on right now. That’s all I have. That’s all we have.

In my right now, I am giving thanks for the health and well being of my immediate and extended families. Everyone is safe.

I pray the same is true for you.

So I’ll keep doing what I’m doing. You keep doing what you’re doing. And in a way, we’ll get through this together.

If you need me, reach out. You can write me – snail mail, email or text message. Or, you can call. My iPhone is charged and ready. I promise to answer.